…but no time to say it. Today I’ve been to Macy’s, a local bakery, Steinmart(s), Ross and Walmart(s). Then we cooked supper and visited with a friend and tried to explain what a blog is to Martha.

Still working on that last thing.

But she is deeply touched and surprised by the fact that she and Sissie are such a bloggy hit. Although Martha hasn’t actually looked at the blog. I think she’s a little scared. Because when my friend Leigh was trying to explain the whole blawg thing to her earlier tonight (WHAT? YOU THINK I WOULD EXPLAIN IT? ARE YOU CRAZY?), Martha’s eyes started to dart around the room like she was looking for a translator to interpret the strange language she was hearing.

And then she asked me why I haven’t sent her what I’ve written, and I said, “BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE A COMPUTER. OR AN EMAIL ACCOUNT.”

And then she asked me why I haven’t sent what I’ve written to D.’s brother, and I explained that we’ve tried, but Scott doesn’t understand how to 1) open an attachment or 2) click on a link in an email. I went on to tell her that I showed the blog to Scott’s wife Rose last summer, and Rose thought it looked really “cute and fun,” but if you were to ask her about my blog today, she would have no idea what you’re talking about, though she would absolutely LOVE IT if you’d go for a run with her.

If you can’t tell, D.’s family isn’t so big on the technology. However, we’re looking into getting Martha a Presto so that she can stay in the bloggy loop.

So anyway, we’ve had a great, funny day. And I’ll update sometime tomorrow, but first I must sleep. For many hours. In a row. Without waking. And preferably without someone throwing up on me.

That would be such a treat.

Hey, remember last week when Alex had a stomach virus? Remember that?

WELL GUESS WHAT?

This morning he woke up around 1:30. With ANOTHER stomach virus!

WE’RE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD!

Oh, bless his sweet little heart.

And this particular virus has thrown down the gauntlet in terms of the I WILL WEAR YOU OUT WITH THE VOMIT factor. It hit every 10-15 minutes the first hour…then every 30 minutes for the next three hours. At one point Alex looked up at me and said, “Mama, can you please make me feel better?” and I almost went into a full Aurora Greenway right there in the half bath.

But then I remembered that there was no nurses’ station on which I could bang my fists. And no nurses to hear me screaming. So the impulse passed.

However, I’m happy to report that A. is on the upswing, and even though we haven’t had much sleep, it’s nice to see him looking a little less peaked. I, however, look like I’ve been run through a spin cycle, so I’m about to take a nap before Mama and Martha get here (thank you, Lord, for a husband who works from home).

And in case you’re wondering: I have warned the grandmothers that our child has been stricken by the plague, but they are completely undeterred by any talk of a virus. So they will be here around lunchtime and conquering Steinmarts Memorial Day Sale shortly thereafter.

And not to worry: when we get to Steinmarts, I will shadow them and take copious notes. Especially when Martha finds something she likes but they don’t have her size and she asks the manager to call every single store in the entire Southeastern region to see if they have the periwinkle Harve Benard short jacket (with the three-quarter-length sleeve and jeweled buttons that aren’t round but they’re not square, either; they’re sort of a rounded square, a rounded square, and they just sort of floop over on the sides, you know how they sort of floop) in a size 2 petite.

I think I’m starting to understand why the Lord gave me those two hours of quiet yesterday afternoon – obviously He knew that today would hold much vomiting and shopping and flooping. But very little sleeping.

A shower and a power nap are calling my name.

It only takes about four seconds here in my little corner of the blawgosphere for people to realize that I am not a terribly serious person. I’m probably more introverted than people might expect, but for the most part I’m a glass-half-full girl. I’m happy. And apart from a three-year period in my early 20’s when I seemed to think that, as a graduate student, I was supposed to be cynical and jaded and brooding, I’ve been a happy person all my life. I think it’s just how I’m wired.

But for the last month or so, I’ve struggled a little bit with feeling, well, CRAZED. It has nothing to do with circumstances – other than the fact that I’ve been running through my circumstances at way too fast a pace (not literally running. oh heavens no. that would require far too much effort). And as a result, I’ve been more impatient than usual with D. and Alex, more resentful of impositions on my time, more frustrated by my ever-growing to-do list.

Basically, I’ve been living outside of my happy little comfort zone.

And as a brief aside, I would just like to say that it’s called “comfort zone” for a reason. Because it is, as it turns out, oh-so-comfortable. Not to mention cozy.

So because of the sheer volume of stuff going on, I’ve felt unsettled. Pulled in sixty different directions. Frazzled. Convinced that I will never, for the rest of my life, enjoy the luxury of just being quiet ever again.

Also, I’m incredibly rational when I’m stressed out. As I’m sure you can tell.

Earlier today D. and Alex left the house to run some errands and grab some lunch. Normally I try to be productive when I have time by myself; I’ll write a blog post or two, mop a floor in a high-Alex-traffic area, return phone calls – stuff that’s not so easy to do with a preschooler around.

But today? I turned off every single electronic device that could ring or ding at me. I sat down on a couch in our living room. And I stayed there for two hours.

I didn’t read. I didn’t watch TV. I didn’t check email.

I didn’t blog. I didn’t talk. I didn’t clean.

I just sat. And thought. And prayed.

And sat. And thought. And prayed.

While I looked out my windows.

It was divine.

So I’m curious: do you have a place where you can “retreat” in your house? Do you have a place where you can recharge your emotional and spiritual batteries? Where you can get away from it all, even if it’s just for a few minutes?

Honestly, I didn’t realize that a prolonged period of quiet could do a girl such a world of good.

But you can rest assured that it’s a lesson I won’t soon forget.

I recently read in a highly-esteemed political publication People magazine that Lindsay Lohan is about to turn 21.

For some reason it made me think about what I’d say to my 21 year-old self if I could in fact turn back the hands of time, which of course I cannot, primarily because math gives me a headache, and I hear there are some formulas and stuff involved in time travel. And perhaps even algebra.

Anyway, here is the profound wisdom I have for, well, the former me:

“Stirrup pants? Really?”

I feel these two questions could change my 21 year-old self’s life. All for the better, mind you.

Which makes me wonder: what would you tell the 21 year-old version of you?

And if you’re just now 21, let me say this: I am so happy for you and all your adorable 21-ishness, but as someone completely (and happily) mired in her 30’s, I may need a little mercy in terms of hearing about your youthful vigor and youthful skin and all-around youthful youthiness.

Because I am tired and, might I add, increasingly wrinkled. And reading about how cute and energetic you are might make me sad. Not to mention a light shade of green.

However, I am genuinely tickled to death that you’re not having to try to ROCK SOME STIRRUP PANTS in order to make a trendy fashion statement. You should be grateful for the rest of your days that you have been spared such an indignity.

Have a lovely Monday, everyone.

So I haven’t mentioned it, but my mama and D.’s mama are coming to our house for a visit next week.

Together.

And while I would love to be a fly on the wall (or windshield, as it were) for what I’m referring to as “The YeeHaw Mamaw Roadtrip,” my primary concern right now is that, at some point in the next couple of days, THE BEAST THAT IS MY HOUSE MUST BE TAMED.

First of all, there’s the matter of a lovely new addition to our foyer area:

Now if I were my mama, I would drape a chenille throw over the top of it and pretend like it wasn’t there, just like she did with what she perceived to be an eyesore in her den:

See? If you look very carefully to your left, you’ll notice that the throw has taken on a square-ish shape that is quite uncommon where throw-draping is concerned.

Unless, of course, the throw is draped over AN OLD METAL WALL HEATER, in which case the square-ish shape makes absolutely perfect sense.

But I digress.

Because my point is that my house is a wreck. Nothing’s where it should be, and I have to do some serious cleaning / straightening / washing between now and Tuesday. Oh yes ma’am I do.

It shouldn’t be difficult to get started, though, because my vacuum has been standing the middle of our dining room for the last two weeks.

Don’t believe me?

It’s just so much more convenient to keep it there instead of in the hall closet where there are, you know, DOORS.

I should also have a relatively easy time with the disinfecting process, because look where my Clorox Wipes are:

On the bar! Next to my earrings! In the living room! Right where they should be!

And then behind the bar is yet another convenient storage facility:

Because where else would you keep a fun noodle, a portable basketball goal, some Nerf balls, a water toy and a box of personalized notepads?

I mean, I don’t mean to brag, but I think it’s PRET-TY CLEAR that it’s a veritable bastion of organization around here, people. We like to keep our stuff OUT IN THE OPEN, so we can SEE IT REAL GOOD.

And then there’s the garage.

But I’m not even going to show y’all a picture of that.

Why, you ask?

Because I am deeply ashamed seeing as how the garage is still full of moving boxes.

Even though we moved in December.

And the moving boxes have stuff in them. Stuff we have not yet unpacked. In almost six months.

Oh, it’s going to be quite the funtacular around here this weekend.

But if push comes to shove? And we run out of time? I’ll just go buy a bunch of chenille throws and drape them over all the boxes.

I think Mama would be proud.

Oh, y’all. My discontent with the television knows no bounds right now.

Perhaps I should elaborate.

Problem: Melinda Doolittle was voted off of American Idol last night, despite the fact that she was the best of all the contestants and by far and away the most consistent performer week in and week out. Not to mention humble.

Action Taken: American Idol? You’re dead to me.

Problem: (SHANNON, DON’T READ THIS AS IT PERTAINS TO CRITICAL SEASON 6 PLOT INFORMATION) On “24,” former First Lady Martha Logan stabbed her ex-husband, Charles, with a paring knife shortly after she had used said paring knife to SLICE A KIWI, thus proving conclusively that “24” has exhausted its supply of weaponry and, might I add, plotlines.

Action Taken: I’ve given up on “24” this season. I will try it again next season. But if anyone dies in the first three episodes as a result of A MISUSED KITCHEN UTENSIL, I’m done.

Problem: HGTV has been overtaken by wacky new hosts who are all “BADABING” and “WOWZEE” and “SHUT UP THAT TABLE IS SO AWESOME I’M GOING TO STICK MY HEAD THROUGH IT AND THEN SAW THE LEGS OFF!”

Who are these people?

Because here’s a tip for HGTV, and they don’t even have to pay me for it: CHILDREN ARE LOUD. MAMAS DON’T NEED MORE LOUD IN THEIR LIVES.

We need soothing, quiet hosts and hostesses when we tune in for your fine HGTV programming, preferably people who don’t convey the feeling that they’re trying to sell us a used car.

Action Taken: Composing an email to HGTV that says the following:

Dear Sir or Madam,

Home decorating is not a game show.

As such, please tell your on-air personalities to quit screaming at us.

Thank you.

Also: I find that I’m switching over to the Food Network with increasing frequency. And just so you know? The new installment of “The Next Food Network Star”?

I’m all over it.

And the good news is that there’s actually even more sunshine on the other side of my TV cloud.

For example.

Not A Problem: The Wii. I know it’s not technically a TV program, but it does require a television in order to work, so I’ll take the TV victories where I can find them.

Reason: Wii, you complete me. Or I guess I should say: Wii, you complete mii. And I love you.

Or, you know, yuu.